


Sweet and Chaotic

by Strigi



Category: Baldur's Gate, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Clerics, Eventual Romance, F/M, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:01:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28868190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigi/pseuds/Strigi
Summary: How does a cleric of Selûne reconcile a relationship with the chaotic vampire rogue? Does one corrupt the other? Or is there lingering darkness that surfaces in the face of an Illithid tadpole?
Relationships: Astarion/Female Charname (Baldur's Gate)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there. I am back with a new romantic exploration to flesh out my ideas of character alignments for Baldur’s Gate 3. As I mentioned previously, this has become a new obsession of mine, particularly in regards for Astarion. We simp hard for him here. But I’m going to go ahead and apologize for any mistakes in lore (again, I am new to this world). This will follow a general progression of the game’s events. I want to keep close to the source material as much as I can while being original enough to not regurgitate dialogue. As such, some dialogue will be verbatim, some will be altered. My main goal for this is to explore how my neutral good cleric can justify a romantic entanglement with Astarion (who I believe is more chaotic neutral than chaotic evil, but to each their own). There are several liberties taken, as I continue, I may stop when the Early Access story and pick it up again when the full game is released, or I may diverge on my own. Wherever the fancy strikes, I suppose.
> 
> If you liked it, please leave some kudos or a comment. I adore reading comments!

Despite its futility, he struggles against the confines of his mind flayer pod. He can still feel the _wriggling_ , the swimming past his eye, the squirming just behind it. Terrifying and revolting. After everything he’s gone through, he is _not_ going down to some amphibious spawn.

Movement catches his eye, making him pause to hold his breath. Three figures skitter carefully past his pod: two thralls and their intellect devourer. They pay him no mind as their eyes nervously scope their surroundings. He suspects the dragons or perhaps the hellspawn attacking the nautiloid are their primary source of concern. The ship rumbles again, eliciting a sickening _lurch_ in his stomach as it sways dangerously in the skies of Avernus. 

The thralls stumble with the turbulence, arms flailing about to find support. The one that looks like a githyanki warrior manages to keep her bearings. The other one, some high elf in a chain shirt, collides into his pod. When the ship settles, her eyes find his, and something inside of him clenches at the contact, braced for whatever she may have planned for him. The elf’s eyes widen, and she does not move for a long moment.

But a sharp hiss and a firm hand from the githyanki pulls her away, practically dragging her through the mucous membrane. Alone once more, he continues wrestling with his restraints until a jarring _crash_ turns his world black.

* * *

At first, he thinks he has died. This is a most logical deduction after being captive on a mind flayer ship, crashing, and waking up on a sunny beach without turning to ash. But blinking in the bright sunlight makes him aware of the scratchy, uncomfortable sand and the soreness in his limbs. Certainly, death would be much more of a reprieve than this.

So the deduction changes. He is not dead. The parasite sneaking around behind his eye must be the source of his sudden tolerance for the sun. An unexpected yet welcomed side effect. Miraculously, it feels as though he’s severed any prior connection to… _him_.

At the sudden thought, he tenses, waiting for a command to be issued all the way from Baldur’s Gate, but there is only blissful and liberating _silence._

But can he attribute that to the parasite as well? Or is the geographic distance to thank for here?

He stretches his fingers in front of him, the pallid skin taut and ghostly in the brightness of the afternoon. The cold, blue veins are slow to warm in the light, but he feels the delicious warmth nonetheless, marveling at the sensation.

A small pier juts out into the water ahead of him. Most of the planks are broken, so he is careful when he steps onto them, a new idea forming in his head. Crouching, he plunges the same hand into the rushing current before quickly retracting it. The water, while icy to the touch, burns hotter than any sun on his skin. He shakes out the pain, taking new stock of his surroundings.

The parasite is the priority. To control it, remove it. Prolonged exposure to its effects could not bode well for him. But who would know what to do with an illithid tadpole? Around here? Where is _here e_ ven at? 

The burning remnants of the ship mar the landscape; everything is unfamiliar to him. At least, thank the hells, they are no longer in Avernus. This leaves him minimal immediate options. Perhaps he could charm or coerce one of those tentacled mind flayers, if he could find one—

A high-pitched hiss draws his attention towards the ship, and stealthily clinging to the edges of debris for cover, he investigates.

An elf. The same one from before, taking on three of those brain creatures. She keeps her balance on a higher platform, handling the bow in her hands with unfamiliarity. He watches her for a few minutes, until she throws the bow to the ground in frustration, summoning a flash of radiant magic with her hands.

A cleric, then. Explains the chain shirt.

The brains are felled in a matter of seconds after that. As the elf cleric takes a moment to collect herself, sagging against a fast-deteriorating wall, he slips away, forming his own plan.

Perhaps a mind flayer’s _thrall_ would be the next best thing to rid himself of the parasite.

A happenstance boar that he fully intends on draining later roots around in the underbrush. He positions himself just perfectly to intercede the cleric exiting the ship, his words imitating the appropriate amount of alarm as he calls for help. There is no hesitation in her steps as she rushes over, and in the naked light, he really gets a good look at her elfin features for the first time—no ruddy light from the nautiloid nor obscure glass of his pod to keep them at bay. 

Her blue eyes are glassy, matching the tattoo paint that circles around her brow. Her frizzy, windswept hair is pinned partially back with a braid, the rest curling wildly about her shoulders. Practical and unconcerned. It does not match his expectations of a cleric.

What _does_ align with the cleric expectation is her readiness to help him, to investigate the bushes with no thought to her own safety. Perhaps that is the hold of the mind flayer, to plunge into the thick of it with no regards to self-preservation.

But then she passes him, shifting upwind, and the spicy-sweet scent of her blood assaults him with unnerving force. It makes every predatory muscle in him quiver with anticipation, urging him to lunge forward and sink his fangs into the _lovely_ creaminess of that neck.

She leans forward to get a closer look at the boar-disguised-as-a-brain thing, and it takes every ounce of willpower to control himself, wondering at his thirst. He’s never fed from a person, and while he has smelled the notes of their tantalizing blood before, he’s never felt so _compelled_ to drink freely before. Perhaps this is an additional lure of his newfound freedom. Perhaps this is his own hunger; it had been some time since he’s fed, since before he was captured.

He barely swallows down the burning thirst, drawing his dagger just as the boar reveals itself, scurrying out of the bushes. He hears her breathe a sigh of relief before he pounces, dragging her down to the ground and pressing the edge of his blade to her throat.

“Not a sound,” he warns, hovering above her. “Not if you want to keep that _darling_ neck of yours.”

Unsurprisingly, she struggles against him. Her efforts are useless against his strength, of course, but every movement sets his senses on fire anew, reminding of him the alluring aroma swirling just beneath her flushed cheeks. Spicy-sweet, again. A distant memory supplies a reference. Like cinnamon.

Gritting his teeth, he focuses on the task at hand. Mind flayer. Parasite. In his head. “Now, I saw you on the ship, didn’t I? Nod.”

There is a flash of resistance in her eyes that makes him press the dagger harder against her throat. He _wants_ it to draw a thin line of blood and is disappointed when it doesn’t. Her face hardens, but she complies with his instructions, nodding.

What an obedient thrall she is. “Splendid,” he praises, almost like a purr before continuing in a growl. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled f _reaks_ did to me.”

Her chin juts up slightly with a challenge. Her voice is low and unafraid. “Let me go, and I _might_ tell you.”

The growl that comes from his throat is delighted with her rebuff. It means he’s one step closer to slicing her open here on the ground and drinking his fill. “Don’t play games with me—”

A sharp pain erupts behind his left eye, obliterating the world around him. His neck twists to escape it, but a vision shimmers before him. Lurking the streets of Baldur’s Gate, the shining, metallic sea before him. A statue of Selûne, of all things—

And then _her_ , prowling that same darkness. But the darkness is his own memory, and she is an interloper—

Then those same elfin blue eyes glaring at him. He remembers where he’s at.

“What was that? he demands. “What is going on?” The thirst has dissipated, replaced by revulsion and _fear_ , the uncertainty of what is happening to him—the sickening sound of snaking tentacles and tadpoles.

Her voice is calm, which dispels some of that fear clawing its way up to his throat. “Let me go, and we can figure it out together.”

Several realizations click together. The memories he had seen were _hers_ , and the clarity of those eyes did not suggest she is enslaved to some mind flayer. After all, he has some experience with what subjugation is like.

He relaxes the grip on his dagger and slowly stands back, observing as she gets to her feet cautiously. Her eyes never leave him. Of course, she’s suspicious _now_.

“I saw into your mind,” he explains. “You’re not one of them. They took you, same as me.”

Her eyes tighten, and she crosses her arms. Her scrutiny suggests some level of expectation.

He belatedly realizes an apology would not be out of place and continues with a heavy sigh. “And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

Her weight shifts to one leg as she appraises him with an arched eyebrow. “Please, don’t strain your apology with a sweeping, grand gesture. One might mistake it for insincerity.”

His mouth twitches into a half-smile at the quip, but there is something undeniably _annoying_ about her attempt at humor. Who is she to criticize his sincerity? His apology? _She_ was the one who made the foolish decision of turning her back on him, a complete stranger. “I’m out of wine and flowers, so I hope an introduction will suffice. My name’s Astarion.” He offers a slight dip, a mocking bow.

Her arms relax minutely. “Muireann.”

After confirming she indeed hosts a tadpole tenant as well, he asks after her current knowledge of their predicament. Her expression falters, the guarded frown slipping to reveal her own fear. She confirms that fear, explaining how their tadpoles will turn them into mind flayers at some point. She has seen the transformation herself.

Of course, he has to laugh at this, albeit rather bitterly. What a fate to have. If not bound to the sadistic whims of the Szarr family, then his whole existence will be painfully ripped apart to become some hideous monster. How fitting that his newfound freedom be blighted with such prospects.

But perhaps there is still time. Time to reverse the process or, better yet, control it. The illithid crash saw the end of their captors. Perhaps there is a chance to survive the transformation. Voicing these thoughts to Muireann elicits some reservations about controlling the worms, but she shares the sentiment of finding someone who can better understand their _condition._

Then, she offers a slow suggestion, almost hesitant. “Perhaps we should travel together. We share a common goal, and there _is_ strength in numbers.”

It is his turn to consider her. While a guarded expression lingers in her face, he can recognize her offer is genuine, even if she may doubt his true intentions. He isn’t quite sure how traveling with her will go; she is a cleric, after all. Historically speaking, vampires did not maintain friendly alliances with clerics. What if she discovers his true nature and finds him no longer compatible?

But he cannot deny how easily she had dispatched those intellect devourers with her blast of radiant magic, not to mention how she survived the crash in the first place. Her skill set, while different, can prove quite useful in areas where he is… lacking. If she does turn on him, he has no doubt he can neutralize her with ease.

Careful not to reveal fangs, he smiles at the idea and waves her along. “Lead on.”

The relief that spreads across her face intrigues him, but when she turns to lead them out of the wreckage, the breeze shifts again, bringing the scent of her blood into sharp relief. The muscles in his abdomen clench with a dull ache, reminding him of his hunger and of the tantalizing prize just out of reach before him.

It is not too much to regain his composure, not yet. But as he follows her oblivious back, he cannot help but marvel at her absolute _idiocy_. Too trusting, too naive for her own good. Perhaps it is a good thing that he is here, to steer her clear of _real_ threats.

But as his throat constricts with the dryness of an arid desert, he isn’t quite sure if he is safe from that assessment yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I take liberties with elf sleep. I know about the sleeping thing. I just imagine that the positioning of the trance is up to user discretion and not sitting cross-legged. That seems rather uncomfortable to me. Anyways, it’s fanfiction so I can do what I want.

If following the herd had been the plan, at least the herd was growing. A wizard from Waterdeep. A githyanki warrior, the very same he had seen on the nautiloid with the cleric. A motley crew of misfits that Muireann had extended her generous invitation to. While the newcomers were little better than cutthroats or other agents of obvious self-interest, he had not seen fit to warn her away from them. They are, after all, bound by a singular cause. If the head-splitting pain he’d felt with every encounter was any indication.

Truthfully, their first night of camp, a small enclosure situated between a riverbank and crumbling, ruined building, poses more of a surprise for him. As the others settle into newly procured bedrolls or the _dirt_ , he stands at a distance, arms folded. The sickening twist of his stomach and the dizzying swim of his head all remind him of his growing hunger that has not yet been sated. He begins making plans to slip away in the dead of night to hunt that boar when he notices _her_ approaching him.

Muireann is her name, he reminds himself. A cleric of Selûne. A gullible nuisance with the blood that smells of cinnamon. He hates her already. Her presence only reminds him of the thirst he wants to slake with the wetness quickening beneath the skin of her throat.

“Everything all right?”

She takes in his rigid posture with some concern, and he forces the charismatic, easy smile. “To be honest, camping is all very new for me.”

Her head tilts at him curiously, but those soft, blue eyes denote some level of sympathy. “It is new to me as well.”

He chuckles at that thought. Of course, the clergy would be used to the feather beds at the temple, given how much they drained the pockets of their patrons. “I suppose a cleric is used to some measure of luxury at the temple.”

The comment makes her frown. “I’ve never stayed at the temple.”

She offers no explanation beyond this, and the curiosity burns in him like his thirst. What sort of cleric didn’t house with their cult? He doesn’t ask; the answer does not concern him. “Apologies for the assumption,” he offers curtly, hoping it will end the conversation.

It does not. The frown shifts into an amused smile, and she looks away to hide her laugh. “Perhaps, you should refrain from the apologies. They are not your strong suit.”

Her reaction catches him off-guard, and he doesn’t know if he should be amused or annoyed by it. He settles for a thin smile and a single shrug of his shoulder.

“You should get some rest. I’m sure there’s a long day ahead of us yet,” she bids to him, beginning to, mercifully, turn away.

But something in him refuses to end the conversation there, as if it’s allowing her the last word on the matter. “I don’t plan on resting just yet. Today has been a lot. I’m going to take some time to think things through, especially with our new companions.” He angles his head towards her meaningfully. “ _You_ sleep. _I’ll_ keep watch.”

She isn’t quite sure of what to make of his words, and he can see her eyes blinking through a mental haze. “Thank you. I’ll sleep better for that.”

This time he smirks, leaning closer and allowing some of that predatory charm to leak into his low, husky voice. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Her stunned, flustered reaction delights him to no end. She turns without a word, her steps uncertain and slow. When she occasionally glances back at him, he imagines her confusion stems from her trying to discern if he was flirting with her or threatening her.

Let her sort that out on her own. The fact that she would so willingly trust him to keep watch would be so laughable if it did not mean that she was unwittingly allowing a vampire to hunt around their camp. A vampire spawn, to be truthful, but still powerful nonetheless. Especially since he craves her blood more than the others. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s so viscerally drawn to her, but it’s proof enough that she should endeavor to be more cautious.

At least, he has her best interests at heart. For now.

_First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures._

It is his first night willingly away from his master. Well, willingly is subjective here. He hadn’t _willingly_ displaced himself in the far reaches of Faerûn, so the niggling fear of an impending flaying persists in the back of his mind, the vibrant sounds of the nightly wildlife setting him on edge.

His master wouldn’t want him late. His master wouldn’t be happy to learn he can stand in the sun—

But if he can stand in the sun, would that also mean the tadpole could sever those ties to his master? There is no pull on his limbs, no silent, unspoken command that wills his body into action. Every effort, every movement is his own. He is no longer bound to someone else’s whims. And he wonders what it would be like to drink the blood a thinking creature—

The image of the cleric appears in his mind’s eye, stopping him dead. The tracks of the boar couldn’t be more unappealing to him now, not with the delicious temptation waiting for him at camp. And nothing to bar his path.

He indulges the thought for a moment, imagining the silence with which he moves towards his quarry. The warmth that would flood across his lips. He wouldn’t take much, just a small taste to _know_ what it was like. She would be none the wiser. He could control it.

But the rippling in his gut suggests otherwise. It had been too long since his last feeding. He would drain her bloodless, and the others would wake and easily deduce what had happened. He would be cast out from the group, or worse.

Perhaps another night he would tempt those fates. When it was safer.

But sinking his fangs into the frightened boar, he wonders whose safety concerns him. His own? Hers?

The beast’s blood flows, fatty and fulfilling. When the boar is drained, his mind feels stronger, able to think more clearly. But even the clarity does not answer his question.

The morning dawns bright and warm. Their bedrolls are arranged in a circle around the campfire, now extinguished. He tilts his head, thinking how _easy_ it would be to take them by surprise as they sleep.

The cleric stretches out across her own bedroll, one arm beneath her head. Quite unconventional for a high elf in her trance. Smirking, he approaches her unconscious form and unceremoniously drops an object that loudly clatters to the ground next to her. The sound successfully jars her awake, interrupting her trance.

“Oh good, you’re up,” he greets with a fresh note of amusement. “I found something for you.”

If the rude awakening annoys her, she does not show it, which only annoys him. Instead, she blinks down at the gift before carefully picking it up to weigh in her hands.

“A bow?” Her confused voice is thick as if with sleep.

“A shortbow,” he corrects. “I saw how terrible you are with using one yesterday, and it was quite amusing to watch. However, if we’re going to be traveling together, I figure it would be in _everyone’s_ best interest to teach you how to use it.”

She stares at him blearily, and for a moment, he wonders if she had even heard him.

“Customarily, when one receives a gift, a show of gratitude would not be misplaced,” he points out plaintively. “I may be terrible with apologies, but at least I know how to say ‘thank you’”

“I… Thank you.” Clearly, she is not a morning person.

“I could show you some basics before we head out for today.”

When she blinks again, her eyebrow arches skeptically, but she does not protest. “If you think that’s best.”

By now, the wizard and warrior are awake, wordlessly witnessing their stiff exchange. He only regrets she is not more awake to appreciate his smugness. There is something inexplicably exciting about making her speechless, like how he had made her flustered last night, but it’s only fun if she’s too stunned to say anything, not too sleepy. 

“I’ll be at the river when you’re ready,” he says, turning away.

The river is a bold choice. All those rushing currents could spell disaster if he finds himself wading into the water. He has no plans of doing so, but showing fearlessness around the river would at least contradict any speculation of him being a vampire.

She arrives in a few short minutes, looking vastly more alert than before, eyes bright and face bright red from scrubbing. Her hair is even more tamed in its flurry of curls.

“Good morning,” he greets. “Sleep well?”

She doesn’t answer, fixing him with a pointed stare as she deflects the question back to him. “Did you? Or did you keep watch all night?”

It takes him a moment to recognize that the stare is not reproachful. Her eyebrows lift with _worry_. The realization strikes him speechless for a moment. He had counted on her being a kind soul when he lured her with the boar yesterday, but never did he expect her to be a fucking _bleeding heart_. That would only make things dangerous for herself, to stop and help every broken soul they encounter. He would have to teach her some self-interest if they were going to survive.

“Don’t fret about me. I got all the rest I need. Now, I’m going to assume you’ve never actually used a bow before.”

He uses the next hour to correct her archery stance, the angle of her elbow, how to draw back the string, how to aim. She picks up the basics pretty quickly, using some practice arrows to aim at the trees across the river.

He imagines her to be the type to pry, to ask seemingly harmless questions about him. Perhaps inquire about his skill with the bow, his history with it. He is surprised that she does not, only asking questions in the realm of his lesson. It almost makes _him_ curious to ask her questions instead. But he stifles the urge. There’s no need to get ahead of himself. After they solved the tadpole issue, everyone would be on their merry way.

The lesson also serves as a test of his own restraint. Full on boar’s blood, he finds that the temptation of hers is less overwhelming. He can freely adjust the position of her draw arm without being overcome with the urge to sink his teeth into that _precious_ neck of hers. Satisfied with this knowledge and her rudimentary skill, the lesson ends.

When they break camp, they head north on the road, reaching the Grove of Silvanus just in time to see it attacked by a goblin raiding party. Just as he suspects, the cleric dives into battle without consulting anyone else. Cresting the hill, she casts a guiding bolt on a nearby bugbear, plunging them into the thick of it. The wizard follows up with a few magic missiles, the gith dives in with her greatsword. He hangs back with his bow at a safe distance.

When the raiding party has been dispatched, the cleric moves among the injured, muttering healing spells. The portcullis gate creaks open, and an enraged human flies through it to confront a tiefling. She draws closer to the pair as if the heated exchange summons the bleeding heart in her with sympathetic concern, a meddlesome claim to prying in others’ affairs.

He glances at the wizard and gith, who are both too concerned with a unique pair of looted gloves from the goblin leader to notice the cleric’s distraction. He sighs to himself, annoyed that the duty of watching out for their _fearless_ leader must fall to him, and hurries inside the gate after her.

At least the confrontation is somewhat entertaining. The human looks positively ready to deck the tiefling. She tries to settle the tempers, citing that there has been enough violence already. 

“Quite so,” Astarion agrees. “Although one has to wonder if everyone would have died if the gates had been opened in time?”

She spares him an annoyed glance, a slight frown, before ignoring him altogether. His shoulders shake silently with laughter. 

His comment spurs the human, Aradin, into action. His fist snaps forward, connecting with the tiefling’s jaw before knocking him out cold. Aradin then storms out of the grove, his companions in tow just as the wizard and gith amble their way inside.

He eagerly looks to the cleric for her reaction at the outburst, expecting something akin to horror. The resignation he sees instead is admittedly disappointing. She utters another healing spell to wake the Zevlor, the tiefling, before helping him to his feet. Despite the tiefling being twice her size.

“What’s going on?” the wizard asks, approaching them.

“Just making sure our cleric doesn’t get herself into trouble,” he explains flippantly. “All is well.”

“All is _not_ well,” Zevlor disagrees. “The druids are shutting down the grove with a ritual of ancient magic, and my people will be forced to leave on roads that are now infested with _goblins_.” He passes a hand over his face in defeat, his shoulders sagging.”

“Is there a merchant here we can trade supplies with?” the gith asks, craning her neck to see over Zevlor’s shoulder. “We needn’t stay long. Surely we will be out of here before their ritual is over.”

“I would see to your business quickly. The druids don’t welcome outsiders, and this latest attack will only make them more pressed to finish the ritual.”

“What about a healer? Are there any here?” the cleric asks him.

“Halsin is our best, but he disappeared with Aradin’s search party. There’s always Nettie who could take a look at you. You’ll just need to make it past the new First Druid. She won’t even see me, any more but—”

A realization descends upon Zevlor’s features as his golden eyes take in their cleric with new interest.

“You though…”

Astarion understands the direction of the tiefling’s thoughts immediately, but the cleric’s stiff lines worry him. She is _all_ bleeding heart. The tiefling hasn’t even asked for help yet but he already knows how she will answer—

“I know it’s not your business, but she owes you for saving this place. Perhaps you could speak to her for us, at least give us more time to prepare.”

He is about to roll his eyes, sigh with dramatic impatience, when her response catches him completely off guard. “I’m sorry, but we really don’t have the time. We have to take care of… another problem.”

The sharp laughter bubbles from his chest, and the words leave his lips of their own accord. “Turning your back on the needy to save your own skin? Maybe we’ll get along after all.” Perhaps he had misjudged her for a bleeding heart cleric. She could be a heartless money collector like many of her kind after all.

She bristles as this observation, and the silent expression she turns to him is pained, which makes him realize her refusal to help the tieflings does not come so easily. He keeps the amused smirk in place, but deep down, he has a startling realization. 

If she will ignore those around her who are in need, exactly how afraid is she of their tadpoles?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astarion struggles with names. Sorry if some of the events get repetitive. I am mostly working on character development.

Her uncharacteristic moment of self-interest is short-lived. As they head deeper into the grove to reach the inner sanctum, several druids block the stairwell for a mob of angry tieflings. His upper lip curls in disgust at the noise; tieflings could be _so_ off-putting. 

Some more excitement happens; a druid changes into a bear, roars a bit, scattering the gathered tieflings. Her eyes glance anxiously at their fleeing faces before approaching the grove proper. Of course, they are stopped but only momentarily before the Pretend First Druid Herself, Kagha, summons them. Unfortunately for their cleric, the scene inside the sanctum is hardly more welcoming.

A small tiefling child, a girl, he thinks, is held hostage at the mercy of a volatile snake while two other druids argue over her fate. Clearly, the elf with the auburn is in charge with her self-important words. He knows that this must be Kagha.

Unsurprisingly, the cleric intervenes on the girl’s behalf, negotiating the tiefling’s safe return to her parents. Kagha is reluctant, citing all disgusting stereotypes about tieflings. He isn’t sure if he buys into the extent of her hatred but cannot be bothered to argue with her perceptions. He leaves that to the cleric.

And he has to roll his eyes when the wizard supports the intervention. What was his name again? Gust? Gale? Something to do with wind. Nuisance?

“You made the right decision,” Wizard Nuisance affirms once the girl scurries away. “That woman is a _snake_.”

“I am _fairly_ sure that the snake was the actual snake,” Astarion points out.

“It matters not,” the gith hisses impatiently. “We are wasting _time_. We should find Zorru at once.”

After he stares blankly at the warrior, the cleric explains that Zorru should have a lead on a githyanki cure to the tadpoles. He nods, not quite remembering when this path had been discussed.

Seeming to read his thoughts, the cleric points out, “We talked about this yesterday when we met Lae’zel _and_ last night at camp.”

It takes him entirely too long to realize that Lae’zel is the githyanki before him.

The cleric outlines the plan. They will speak to Nettie _and_ Zorru. Two chances of a cure are better than one. Lae’zel reluctantly assents to this. Wind Gust is ambivalent, happy to explore all of their options.

They proceed deeper inside, at last reaching Nettie tending to a bird. The dwarf healer ignores their presence while she continues her work. Their cleric waits patiently to be seen, but Astarion has an overwhelming urge to give the injured bird a few stabs with his dagger. Before it comes to such drastic measures, Nettie turns to them.

“We are looking for a healer,” the cleric begins slowly.

“I am no Master Halsin, but I am still quite capable. What seems to be the matter? You don’t _look_ injured.” The druid folds her arms, her critical gaze examining them.

The cleric hesitates. “Perhaps we should wait for Halsin. We have somewhat of a… complicated matter. Sensitive.” 

Nettie impatiently waves off her concerns. “Master Halsin went with Aradin and the others, and he didn’t return with them. I don’t want to imagine the worst, but he may _not_ return. In that case, I’m the best you’ve got right now.”

Suddenly Astarion tenses the more he returns the druid’s clinical gaze. He can imagine how sensitive of a topic mind flayers are, how well they’ll be received. Pre-tadpole infection, he knew _exactly_ how he would handle such news. This Nettie, who had seemed more invested in a bird than people, does not strike him as the best path.

But the cleric, faltering slightly, takes her blind leap of faith into stupidity. “What do you know about mind flayers?”

Recognition flashes through the druid’s face. She keeps her voice even, but Astarion can detect the suspicion behind it. “Why?”

Muireann dives into a short narrative of their tadpole problem, revealing only herself as the infected. At least she only implicates herself, but Astarion’s fingers twitch impatiently against his arm.

Nettie listens with genuine interest before escorting them to another hidden room, an enchanted library concealed by a stone door that’s activated by her circlet. This library houses extensive research notes about mind flayers and tadpoles, including a relatively fresh cadaver of a drow sprawled across a stone table.

He sees Muireann stop short at the sight of the body, her hands clenching at her sides. Nettie explains how they encountered the drow who attacked them in the forest. Halsin had dispatched him, and once he was dead, a tadpole slithered out of his ear.

The cleric leans closer to the corpse, having difficulty reining in the look of horror on her face. Astarion would laugh at her expression if it all wasn’t so _obvious_.

“I’m hoping for a less _grave_ cure,” Muireann says, pulling herself away from the table.

At first, Nettie does not respond, keeping her eyes trained on something in her hands. Astarion steps closer, frowning. Finally, Nettie turns, a faraway look in her eye. “Yes, I’m no Master Halsin, but I’ll do the best I can.”

“Forgive me if that doesn’t instill the greatest confidence in your abilities,” Astarion quips.

Muireann casts an anxious look at him, one that signals for him to be quiet. Nettie doesn’t respond to the remark, looking straight to their cleric. She holds a branch he doesn’t recognize. “I need your arm, please.”

Astarion is _relieved_ to see suspicion cross Muireann’s features. Perhaps there is hope for her self-preservation yet. “What is that?” she asks the druid.

The druid adopts a new urgency in her voice. “A cure. Now, you don’t have a lot of time. The mind flayer transformation happens pretty quickly.”

Reluctantly, Muireann obliges the request, and Astarion wants to _scream_. He isn’t quite sure why he doesn’t, something staying his voice and limbs. Perhaps this is the natural order of the world, the survival of the strongest and smartest. After all, if he had wanted to, he could have easily eliminated her the first time they met.

The druid takes her arm, glancing at the rest of the party. “You don’t have to be here for this.”

Air Puff maintains his academic interest. Astarion is already there, seeing it until the end. It is all the confirmation she needs to continue.

With a single slicing motion, Nettie drags the thorns across her wrist. Muireann recoils with a sharp his, her face twisting in pain. Immediately, her body begins to sag, and Astarion can detect a change in her blood. It turns from spicy-sweet to sour bitterness.

Nettie is unsettlingly calm. “Try to relax. The poison will work quickly. Like you’re going to sleep.”

The word seems to ignite a fire inside of him, his head spinning with sickening speed. He does not know if he is experiencing rage or feeling the cleric’s pain echoed through his own tadpole.

Muireann latches onto the word as well. “ _Poison_? What in the hells did you do to me?”

“I said I was no Master Halsin. He’s done the most research on illithids. Perhaps he could have done more, but the only thing I can do is make sure you don’t hurt anyone in this grove. Be careful, your legs will give out first.”

Astarion’s hands flex towards his weapon, but a new sound stops him. A sound that surprises him. A low, dangerous, and _angry_ voice belonging to Muireann. “ _Give me the antidote_.”

But the druid is resolute. “I can’t.”

Astarion doesn’t wait for any more arguments or refusals. If their cleric can’t act quickly enough out of her own self-preservation, he supposes that’s what _he’s_ there for. He draws his dagger, and in a quick movement, he pushes it into Nettie.

The druid howls in pain but utters a quick spell to transform herself into a giant spider.

The others quickly spring into action with him, and within a few minutes, Nettie lies dead. Muireann stumbles to look for the antidote, gripping her side and grimacing in intense pain. Astarion wipes off his blade before searching among their research notes.

“I’m not entirely sure if the attack was _warranted_ ,” remarks Hot Air, perusing some of the bookshelves. “But I can’t believe she tried to _kill_ you.” Despite his voiced concern, he is not particularly troubled over what has just occurred.

Astarion struggles to school his temper. He isn’t quite sure why he is so worked up, but his stiff fingers have trouble rifling through the pages. “Warranted?” he counters derisively. “She attacked Muireann first. It was not only warranted but _necessary_.”

Muireann doesn’t respond. Instead, she finds a round bottle full of liquid, eases herself on a stone seat, and drains the bottle of its contents. The bitterness begins to wane from her blood, and the reassuring fact slows the spinning in his head.

He turns to face her, his irritation getting the best of him. “Well, at least we’ve learned two things. First, the only person that can help us isn’t here. And second, you’re an _idiot_.”

He waits for his words to sink in, but she returns his gaze evenly, a slight shadow of fatigue flickering across her features that otherwise remain impassive.

He inclines his head towards her, steepling his fingers, and his tone darkens. “The next time someone asks about the mind flayer tadpole in your skull, _consider lying_.”

The significance of his words begins to weigh on her, and she sighs, an exhausted sound. “I will endeavor to be more dishonest.”

Through her tiredness, he can detect her quick sarcasm, but at least she agrees. He smiles in response. “See that you do.”

The wizard, _Gale_ is his name, he finally realizes, goes on an opportune tirade about the injustice of the druid poisoning her. He prattles on about choice and consent. Astarion only half pays attention, watching as Muireann sifts through the notes he’s already gone through with more familiarity. He surprises himself by being pleased that Muireann only half pays attention to the wizard as well, offering noncommittal remarks. Her attention pauses on a particular page of Halsin’s research, her fingers unintentionally lingering against Astarion’s who holds the page out for her.

His hand instantly goes rigid, the cinnamon aroma overrunning his senses with staggering strength. He holds absolutely still as fresh hunger envelopes his buzzing mind. How can this be? He had his fill of boar only last night.

She does not seem to recognize his reaction, too immersed in the druid research. She announces to the room, “Halsin seems to have been close to a cure. He recognized that the tadpoles have been tampered with.”

“Then we should find him,” Astarion says, clearing his throat and disengaging his hand.

“He does seem to be our best bet, if we can find him alive,” Gale muses.

Lae’zel grunts with impatience. “I doubt he has the knowledge and abilities of a gith crèche. At any rate, we are going nowhere if we cannot find a way to leave this accursed room.”

They all turn to see the stone door locked securely into place. Muireann and Gale venture closer to inspect it, while Astarion glances at the still-warm body of the druid leaking precious blood all over the stones. The sheen of scarlet does not pique his interest like the sweet, tantalizing promise of cinnamon.

The circlet around her brow is a twist of twigs intertwined with lustrous rubies that glint in the dim torchlight. He plucks it from her corpse before lowering it on Muireann’s head with a flourish. The closeness, the proximity is dangerous as his head swims with the nausea of hunger, newly invigorated again.

_Strange_. Such a localized, _particular_ thirst for blood. 

Startled, Muireann gives a slight jump in surprise, but the circlet emits a flash of blue light that interacts with the door. The stone slowly recedes beneath the floor, granting them passage. Her fingers fly to the new accessory he’s bestowed on her, glancing around in surprise. She begins to take it off.

“Keep it,” he insists. “It looks better on you than it ever did on her.”

The flush that rises to her cheeks makes him take a step back and look away. His muscles are taut with that needy _thirst_ he struggles to control. She does not seem to notice. “I don’t think the other druids will be fond of us _looting_ ,” she hisses in a low voice, her eyes cutting to the side. “Much less murder.”

“They don’t have to find out,” he points out. “We can keep her body locked in here, and without that circlet, they’ll never open the door to find it.”

“All the more reason to leave it behind,” she argues, poorly suppressing a look of disgust. “Besides, they’ll notice her missing at some point.”

Gale intervenes. “At which point, we will be far away. Besides, it wasn’t murder. She attacked _you_ first, making it self-defense.”

Astarion watches as she considers the wizard’s words, and her single, silent nod elicits a faint ringing in his ears. _Annoyance_. How is Gale able to convince her and he is not? And _why_ was that so irritating to him? To be passed over for the likes of an arrogant puff of hot air.

Zorru is their next stop, and they find him pacing back and forth between the hastily-erected wooden shacks in the hollow of the tiefling quarter. He instantly quails upon seeing Lae’zel, who swaggers up to him with a sharp command to bow.

Astarion chuckles to himself as he enjoys watching Zorru squirm. Muireann watches on, her eyes widening as Lae’zel continues threatening the poor bastard. Eventually, the shaking tiefling bends at the waist into a modest bow, but it doesn’t satisfy the githyanki warrior. 

When she instructs him to bow lower to the ground, Muireann takes a step forward to intercede, but Astarion places a restraining hand on her shoulder. The contact makes him salivate, and his jaw clenches. _Why is everything about her so tempting?_

She tenses beneath his touch, perhaps understanding how _dangerous_ he is, and merely looks on as Lae’zel bullies the information from the whimpering tiefling. Muireann does not intervene, shifting her weight to lean against a nearby shack as her face hardens in disapproval.

Lae’zel releases Zorru unscathed. Astarion, a little disappointed about not seeing the might and efficiency of a gith evisceration, complains about the general lack of violence. Lae’zel merely scoffs, her mouth curling with a promise of putting on a show in the future. Astarion cannot help but look to see how the conversation weighs on the cleric’s judgment, and predictably, his wandering eyes meet her scowling ones.

As if to challenge her, he squares his shoulders, _inviting_ her to protest their barbaric methods, but she does not say a single word. But perhaps she would have, if she had more time to comment. If Zevlor, the head tiefling, hadn’t approached them just then, his demonic golden eyes pleading, targeting the beating, _bleeding_ heart of the group.

“I heard what you did for the girl. I know you have concerns of your own, but perhaps we can talk more? In private?”

Astarion knows Muireann’s answer before she nods for Zevlor to lead the way into the secluded chamber.


End file.
